


Warmth

by purplefury



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alfyn Greengrass Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Therion (Octopath Traveler) Needs a Hug, hugs are needed during these trying times, mentions of miguel and darius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefury/pseuds/purplefury
Summary: Several days have passed since the battle with Redeye. When Alfyn wanders off alone one night, Therion searches for him in the city. He's seen this behavior before, and fortunately, he's in a better place to support those close to his heart.A companion piece to"Among Sand and Stone"
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass/Therion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	Warmth

An afternoon nap leads into the evening, and a groggy Therion huffs at the realization.

In the audience chamber, they reported the news, and King Khalim assured them that they would sort out the details regarding Redeye’s origin. Such details escaped his mind at the time, as the battle exerted his energy. He recalls Cyrus offering to share his findings from that tome of his and it’s honestly their best lead. The king accepted the proposal and insisted that they rest in the same breath. He may be the only authority Therion comes to respect, in due time.

Several days have passed since the battle in Grimsand. He lies in the softest bed he’s ever slept on, and yet, it feels wrong. Turning over, he stares blankly at the vacant bed.

Alfyn mentioned heading to town earlier, and either Therion overslept, or Alfyn never returned. There’s only one other time when he wandered off without a word.

It takes a brief glance out the window to spur Therion into action. With a sigh, he leaves his room and heads toward the palace’s main entrance. The guard on duty greets him with a brief nod, and Therion enters the cool evening air. A few people linger in the town square, while others enjoy a quiet walk along the main streets. Day or night, the residents seem to live their lives with content - a testament to the king’s leadership. Compared to the corruption in previous cities, it’s refreshing.

He notices the same knight from the first day in Marsalim - off duty and in a hurry. Linde liked him, so Therion figures he must be decent.

“Hey,” he wastes no time. “Got a minute?”

“Oh-!” the knight recognizes the white hair and bows his head. “Of course - what may I help you with?”

“I’m looking for someone. You’ve seen him before - this tall, green vest.”

The knight answers after some thought. “Ah, yes. This afternoon, I noticed him speak with Lady Eliza, and they entered our stronghold.” 

He gestures toward a wide building residing near the city’s main entrance. Therion thanks him with a nod, interjecting as the knight turns to leave.

“You all right?”

“Oh, it is nothing,” the knight lies and relents immediately. “Well, in truth, my partner often celebrates after a victory. I have yet to search the tavern for his presence, and I do not look forward to it.”

“Hm, good luck with that,” Therion sympathizes, and the knight makes his exit. He thinks of various drunken nights among the travelers. Olberic or H’aanit usually carries at least one person back to the inn. If Olberic is the lucky patron, H’aanit lifts his arms, while Alfyn lifts his legs. When all three are drunk on the same night… well, the tavern keeper wasn’t too pleased that time. They have a system in place to avoid similar disaster, though he recalls the memories with a laugh.

Stopping at the stronghold’s entrance, it’s back to business. 

He knocks and waits. “It’s Therion.”

It’s a brief wait.

“The door is open,” a voice sounds from inside.

Therion obliges, and the heavy door creaks as he shuts it behind him. A lone oil lamp provides a steady light in the knights’ stronghold. Seated at a cluttered table, Eliza cleans a broadsword with practiced ease. Other weapons rest upon the table and against the walls, from what Therion can see.

Better not waste her time.

“I’m looking for-”

“Alfyn?” Eliza finishes the statement, setting the sword down. “Then you have come to the right place.”

That would explain the door. Therion’s about to clarify as Eliza points toward the ceiling.

“He approached with an inquiry about a quiet space. Oftentimes, I sit on the rooftop after a day’s work, though he has spent most of the evening there. Concerned, I offered to retrieve food, as well as a listening ear, but he did not wish to impose.”

A sigh. “Sounds like him.” 

“He is a poor liar,” Eliza confesses with a quiet voice. “Perhaps a friendlier face may ease his concerns. The solemn expression does not suit him.”

Therion has seen this reaction before. For the two of them, it was a city of beginnings and betrayal... a city of shared, painful memories. Beneath the bridge flowed a river of lies, and they were both caught in its current. 

Form bridges, and the river flows forth. Burn bridges, and the river flows past. The world moves on regardless of choices and their outcomes, and Therion often ponders the point of it all. What he builds eventually breaks, so why put in the effort?

Yet each day, Therion remembers the value of such bonds. He can’t let Alfyn suffer alone. Not again.

“I told him no one shall disturb him, and if they try, they will have to pass me.”

“Good thing you’re letting me pass, then.”

Eliza chuckles. “H’aanit spoke of your sharp wit. Always one step ahead.”

“Something like that,” he shrugs. “That all she said?”

“She spoke of your kind heart, too. Best not to take those words lightly,” Eliza humors him with a smile. “Ah, but enough of that. The stairs on your left lead toward the rooftop, when you are ready.”

Therion thanks her with a nod and proceeds. He’s used to dark and narrow passages, though the air feels heavier than hurried. Raising an arm as he walks, his hand knocks against the latch of the door.

Deep breath.

The latch turns with ease, and cool air greets him as he pushes upward. Stepping out, Therion spots Alfyn beneath the torchlight - back turned away, head low, and shoulders down. The sight brings him back to Saintsbridge, and he doesn’t like it.

“Um-” Therion starts, wondering if the noise alerted him.

A silent Alfyn looks over his shoulder, turns away, and pats the empty space on the bench. It’s something. 

“If you want, I can leave-”

“No,” Alfyn says and immediately looks away. “No, I- I’m sorry. Were ya worried ‘bout me?”

If he was in a joking mood, Therion would respond in kind. Sitting beside Alfyn, he takes the plain and honest route. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” 

“Hm,” Alfyn nods, hands fidgeting in his lap. 

The air’s tense, and so is Alfyn. Therion has more experience navigating through tension through the guise of genuine concern. It’s all he feels, at the moment.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks.

“Oh, um,” Alfyn pauses and lifts one hand to pat the shoulder in question. “Phili checked it out. Local healers, too - didn’t blame ‘em for bein’ curious. Ya know how I say that apothecaries are awful patients? Sure felt that way, askin’ a bunch of questions about Sunlands remedies. They didn’t mind, though. Sometimes, they even go to the Riverlands for somethin’ different.”

Therion remains quiet, giving Alfyn the space to share his thoughts. He always thinks a lot, and talking out loud helps him process his feelings. It’s a different approach compared to Therion’s honed restraint, but he’s a good listener (or so they tell him).

“Guess the ramblin’ helped distract me. Before I knew it, my shoulder was all patched up.”

There’s shuffling beneath their feet, and Therion remembers Eliza’s presence. Even so, he feels little concern about her potential eavesdropping into their issues. If H’aanit truly spoke of his good heart (and H’aanit rarely lies), maybe she knows more than she’s willing to tell. He can appreciate her support.

“I reckon there’s more to your question, though,” Alfyn chimes in. There’s uneasiness in his words. 

A deep breath, and Therion speaks his mind. “Wandering out without a word, refusing food… I think you know what I’m getting at.”

“Lady Eliza told ya, huh?” Alfyn gives in. “Yeah. It’s been on my mind all night.”

The downtrodden voice pulls at Therion’s heart, stronger than before. He once pitied Alfyn’s naivety, knowing the world would bite the overly trusting hand that fed it. The world didn’t settle for one bite. It fought, it stabbed, and it _laughed_. For someone like Miguel, the world revolved around him, others be damned. 

The message hits too close to home.

“Back then, I ran as fast as I could, prayin’ he’d stay with me. When I brought him back, I could barely look his ma in the eyes. Wouldn’t blame her if she damned my existence, right then and there.” 

Therion doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. 

“I just… I hope he’s doin’ all right, and that I’m so sorry.”

It’s quiet, save for the clattering metal and footsteps beneath them. He made a mistake, yes, but he wasn’t at fault. 

“Ya know, whatever I tried to hide came out at night. Scared the hell outta me, like gettin’ pricked by slumberthorn every time.”

Therion remembers the signs: tossing and turning, sweating, hands clutching the blankets. All-too familiar signs, and he hated seeing Alfyn in that state. Out of all the lessons of life’s cruelties, he genuinely wished Alfyn didn’t have to endure that one. And yet, he was caught up in his own issues to fully help, shackled by the heavy past he had to confront. He wants to think he’s in a better place now, one where he can support those closest to him.

In the end, Alfyn’s hands heal, not harm. He’s an apothecary, not a-

No. Not that thought again. With all the kindness they’ve shown him, Therion wants to extend it to himself, however difficult. He’s more than a thief. He’s gentle beneath the rough edges, warm beneath a cold front. Whatever phrases his friends use to describe him, he wants to believe them.

“... It wasn’t your fault. If you’ve heard it before, then you’re hearing it again. He’s alive because of you.”

It’s Therion’s turn to support Alfyn, and he rests his hand upon a trembling one. It’s cold to the touch. How long has he been here?

“You heal people, not hurt,” Therion speaks his prior thoughts aloud. Verbal assurances help him, and perhaps they can help Alfyn. “Must’ve been hard to do what you did, to have no other choice.”

Alfyn sighs, and his hand continues to tremble. “Hardest thing in my life. I still beat myself up for bein’ a damn fool, cuttin’ down one life to save another. The life I worked so hard to save, and I felt nothin’ after I ended it. I felt so lost.”

Therion gently squeezes his hand in silent support, brushing his thumb against it without thought. He feels Alfyn’s hand stiffen beneath the touch, yet as it turns over to clasp his own, he doesn’t pull away. It feels a little warmer.

“If you want, I can check on him if I’m nearby,” Therion offers, voice soft yet resolute.

“What?” Alfyn turns toward him. “I… ya don’t have to do that. I know Saintsbridge ain’t a good memory for ya, either.” 

“If I’m there, I might as well.” It’s a miniscule check on a long list of kind acts he wants to give Alfyn. Therion built this bridge, and he’ll walk across it.

“...I’d appreciate that,” Alfyn admits. “A lot.”

“Then it’s settled,” Therion mirrors his soft tone.

Another squeeze of his hand, and Alfyn pulls back. The touch lingers upon Therion’s skin.

“Heh, reminds me of what I told Ogen when I hated his guts. ‘Just ‘cause someone’s a thief doesn’t mean I leave ‘em to die’, or somethin’ like that.“

Therion takes in a breath.

“...You thought of me?”

“Loud and clear,” Alfyn nods. “I wanted to think there was somethin’ more to him, and then”- he makes a vague gesture in the air - “ _that_ happened. That’s when I knew... he was beyond my help. I had no other choice.”

Beyond help. Therion’s too familiar with that concept. A patient and a partner, two bad apples from a rotten tree… in a twisted way, Therion thinks they were made for each other. Two sentimental hearts were tainted in their wake; two sentimental hearts now try to heal. Maybe Therion can be the healer, this time.

Cautiously, he opens his arms in front of Alfyn.

“You look like you need one.”

It’s the first time he initiates a hug, and Alfyn’s equally cautious. 

“Ya sure?”

A nod. 

“Yeah.”

When a vulnerable Therion asked Alfyn to hold him in that Duskbarrow inn room, he honored the request with respect. Alfyn promised a better attempt once Therion’s wounds healed. He’s better, for the most part. Might as well take a leap of faith.

Strong, gentle arms wrap loosely around his frame. It’s progress, yet Alfyn’s still hesitant. Trembling, too. Whether he’s still shaken, cold, or both, Therion tries to fix one of those states.

Therion rests his head against Alfyn’s chest and breathes deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs. A slow exhale, and he repeats, willing the magic within him to light. It’s a skill Therion learned to endure the cold, yet it only works when he’s sound of mind. Thoughts flit to his days in Northreach, but he pushes them away. He focuses for Alfyn’s sake. He’ll be the healer.

The warmth radiates from his core and travels through his body, all the way toward the hands rubbing Alfyn’s back. To his relief, it draws Alfyn close, strong arms tightening ever so slightly. Therion stiffens as he feels a head land upon his shoulder - but only for a moment. Alfyn accepts the comfort, and it’s all that matters.

The trembling slows... then stops. Arms slowly relax in a gentle embrace, and their breathing syncs. Therion remembers his own vulnerable state and Alfyn’s comfort, no questions asked. Warm, safe, and cared for. He offers this in kind, relieved as Alfyn accepts his gesture. It’s more than a relief; it’s a confirmation. Therion knows the lightness in his heart after receiving such care, and now, he can provide warmth to others. 

No one speaks for a while. The stars gaze upon two sentimental souls learning how to heal together.

Eventually, the head rises from his shoulder, and Alfyn pulls away. Not too far, never too far.

“Thanks, bud. I needed that.” 

The warmth helped Alfyn; _he_ helped Alfyn. It’s the verbal confirmation Therion needs, and his heart swells with relief.

His heart’s also racing quite a bit - a strange fluttering within. Therion can tell Alfyn’s flustered when he looks away, a hand against his chest. 

They spend the next moments catching their breaths and calming their heartbeats.

“Life’s a fleetin’ thing, isn’t it? It’s always after a battle when I think too much about it.”

Intimate and introspective - it’s a common thread that runs through Therion’s conversations.

“No better time to do it. Especially after this.”

Alfyn sighs. “Professor said he’d talk to the King about it. Whatever’s in that tome is our best bet, and he told me not to worry, that he’ll handle it. ‘Course, here I am worryin’ instead of restin’.”

“Sounds pretty serious if Cyrus is telling you,” Therion lets out a huff. “I trust his word, though. King’s got plenty of connections. Let’s hope they find something.”

“Yeah… guess it’s out of our hands, now. Just hopin’ whatever that was can rest easy now, even if it did scare the hell outta me, scramblin’ toward me without warnin’,” Alfyn recalls with a light shiver. “What did ya do back there? When I woke up, swords were flyin’.”

“Apparently, a certain god stole the show.”

“Damn. Wish I could’ve seen that.”

Therion lets out a huff. “You were nothing to laugh about, out there.”

“Ya reckon?” Alfyn brightens from the praise and bares his wrist. “Got a certain someone to thank, for that.”

The sparkle catches Therion’s eye. Alfyn’s still wearing the bracelet. From what he can tell beneath the torchlight, the blue stones are less vivid. The bracelet serves no practical use, and yet, he’s still wearing it. 

Then again, it’s Alfyn. Whether it’s a satchel of seashells or a shining bracelet, he can find the value in anything.

“Almost makes me wanna get one for myself,” Therion glances at his own wrist.

“That’s too much power for one guy, ya know.”

“True.”

The honesty earns him a genuine laugh from Alfyn. Therion takes the victory.

“Anyway… thanks for comin’ to find me. You’re probably sick of hearin’ it, but ya got a good heart.”

“Hm,” Therion fiddles with the ends of his scarf. It’s no lie. They make the effort to tell him with words, knowing it helps him believe them. Slowly, he replaces the cheap words with cherished ones from cherished friends.

“Trying my best here.”

“Your best is enough.”

It is, isn’t it? To think, he once loathed the sentiment. He always had to do better to survive, living out of spite. Now, he can live for himself, to make amends and treasured memories.

“Heh, now ya got me thinkin’.”

“The good kind?”

“Think so,“ Alfyn stretches his arms. “I reckon I gotta give poor Zeph a break back home. Should probably take over for a while, but who knows? Maybe I’ll end up travelin’ again, helpin’ those in need, and learnin’ all I can.”

“Not a bad way to live,” Therion praises.

“Don’t need much to live a good life, really. But hey,” Alfyn adds with renewed energy. “If ya find yourself nearby, you’re always welcome in Clearbrook. Just warnin’ ya that my room’s always a mess.”

“Heh, I’ll keep that in mind,” Therion looks away for a moment. It’s another confirmation that he’s welcome somewhere, that’s he’ll always have a place to call home. “And… thank you.”

Thanks for dealing with him, thanks for the late nights tending to his wounds, thanks for being there when he had every right to leave. He rubs the healed skin on his wrist and looks up at the sky, pondering gratitude over grief.

The stars gaze back and he wonders if they’re proud. They’ve watched him for a long time as a constant presence in a lost life, and they’ve guided him here. 

“Hm… ya ever think about writin’ letters?” Alfyn asks after some time.

“Letters?” Therion starts to fidget. One hand squeezes the other to soothe a new wave of worries. In truth. he did write in the past, conveying troubled thoughts onto crumpled parchment when Darius became difficult. He‘d write in the dead of night, words barely lit by a low flame.

_Things are bad. Need to get away. But where?_

He didn’t know, so he stayed, endured, and survived. Now he lives to tell the tale.

“Might have said it before, but talking’s easier. I did try, though.” 

Darius never saw the words, as Therion burned the parchment in his palm every time. He saw the act, however, and Therion endured the scolding as he always did. Poetry nonsense was a waste of his damn time, staying up would make him weak, weak, weak… the details blurred together, but the message remained the same. He could never please him. The writing stopped, thoughts kept him company, and stars became new company when the thoughts were too much.

“Would ya be willin’ to try again?” Alfyn says softly, his gaze trailing over Therion’s hands. “I’m sorry if I brought up the past.”

Alfyn’s better at noticing the signs. He fidgets and drapes a cloak of uneasiness over himself, signalling others to step back. His friends know when to reach out, to encourage him to remove the cloak and bare his true feelings. They’ll protect his feelings, and when words prove difficult, Therion’s grateful for it.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he reassures, willing himself to relax. One hand rests over the other, and he runs a thumb against rough skin. “I’m just… who would read them?”

A light huff. “Well, you’re lookin’ at one option.”

Jest aside, Therion feels the sincerity in his voice. He turns to face him, and beneath the light, he notes that Alfyn’s entirely serious.

“If ya wanna try again, send ‘em to me. I’ll read every word.”

Alfyn doesn’t know what he’s getting into, does he? Therion calculates each spoken word, yet his thoughts are rambling and flitting. He imagines struggling through written words, scribbling over mistakes because mistakes are weaknesses, and he can’t show weakness. He writes a word when ink spills against the parchment and ink and parchment go to waste and he panics because he can’t waste anything-

His heartbeat quickens, and that’s when he feels an arm wrap around his body, gently nudging him to the side. There’s a slight flinch and a pause, but Therion remembers it’s Alfyn, and Alfyn would never hurt him.

“Is it all right?” The arm remains still, and he’s ready to pull away, if needed.

Therion answers by slowly leaning toward him, resting his head against his side. There’s a quiet exhale, and Therion feels Alfyn relax against him. A hand moves to rub circles against Therion’s back. Alfyn knows he likes that. Alfyn probably knows that he needs to breathe, too, if only to calm his worries. They’re valid worries, of course. Some days, it’s difficult to soothe himself, but a supportive hand helps. 

And so, Therion breathes deeply without further prompting. Alfyn matches his pace, letting him know he’s there, that it’s no illusion. He came here to comfort Alfyn, yet Alfyn has that way of getting to him, warm and comforting without effort.

Maybe it’ll come naturally to him, one day.

He’s a little calmer now, calm enough to speak. Therion’s tone is soft, cautious, yet hopeful.

“Every word?”

“Every word.”

Alfyn doesn’t miss a beat. The kind words hit Therion every time, and every time, there’s no pain. 

“Ah, slight problem,” Alfyn scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “Say ya do write the letters - ‘course I’d wanna write back. Unless they got messenger birdians in these parts, where would I send ‘em?”

Therion almost laughs. “You know what happened last time.”

“I know, but humor me, will ya?”

“Fine, fine.”

Therion recalls their banter with a smile. Alfyn’s mishap with Zeph’s letter was a rookie mistake. Even better was H’aanit’s dramatic “oh, thou didst not!” - how he snorted in response, and how the others ended up laughing when he laughed. Not at him, but with him, always with him. They always celebrate his joy (even at Alfyn’s expense), and remind him that such joy is a treasure. Luckily, Alfyn doesn’t give him a hard time about it.

“Still thinking,” Therion stares down at his hands. “Have some things I need to sort out on my own.”

“Ya sure ‘bout that? Don’t want ya tryin’ to act tough here, c’mon.”

Fair point. Going from a ragtag group to one is hard for most people. He’s used to wandering wherever his feet take him, whether or not he receives a warm welcome. Now, friends assure him that their doors are open, and those who search for a proper home… who knows? Maybe they can help each other walk new paths.

“It’s the truth,” Therion says. “I don’t know what it’s like to stay in one place, wondering what I’ll do or what comes next. Need to work on myself for a while.”

An affirming nod. “Makes sense. Ya learn some things best on your own.”

“Yeah,” Therion nods. “But I’m not alone - at least, I don’t think so. Even if we’re spread out, everyone’s…” 

He shakes his head from the near-admission. “I’m gonna be sappier than you, one day.”

“Ya still got ways to go,” Alfyn chuckles. “I think it suits ya well. And don’t ya worry.”

He emphasizes his point with another pat against Therion’s back.

“Ya won’t be alone anymore. Think I can speak for the rest of ‘em when I say that. Never forget.”

Therion basks in the reassurance. It reminds him of H’aanit’s kind words from Duskbarrow: “We loveth thee, Therion. Never forgetten.”

A slow blink, a small hum, a moment’s peace in everyone’s kindness.

He won’t forget.

“Hey, I uh, I got somethin’ for ya.”

There’s a slight chill when Alfyn leans away, and Therion wants the warmth to return. Sounds of clinking vials fill the air as Alfyn rifles through his satchel. He passes along an object wrapped in cloth, and Therion notes the familiar gold ribbon beneath the torchlight. For someone who catches others off-guard, he’s the one who’s caught by surprise.

“If ya don’t want me to look, I can turn away,” Alfyn says with a bashful tone. “I might anyway - a bit nervous, aha.”

He wants to tease him, yet Therion’s mind blanks. Never mind the familiar ribbon (and cloth, he assumes), but a gift? For him? Whether it’s a warm cloak or freshly-baked sweets, he’s not used to receiving gifts. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to it. 

Still, better not keep Alfyn waiting.

Unwrapping the cloth, a bracelet rests in his open palm. The light colors the stones red, yet as Therion turns it over, he deduces they’re naturally red. Sparkling, too. 

“There’s ah, there’s no magic in it, but I just thought it looked real pretty, and maybe I got some help ‘cause the merchants don’t mess around, but they said not to tell ya and I’m telling ya anyway, and-”

Therion doesn’t catch the entirety of his nervous ramble. He loses himself in the sparkling stones, the shine that brings him back to his own market hunt. Truth be told, he shared such sentiments in his head: nerves, anxiety, and doubts. Would Alfyn hate the gift?

He didn’t, of course, and the bracelet worked pretty damn well.

“...I don’t know what to say,” Therion murmurs, still in disbelief. He doesn’t expect an answer, yet it’s still hard to take in. Fingers glide over the facets of each stone leading toward the bracelet’s clasp.

“Maybe tryin’ it on will help?” Alfyn gestures. “Only if ya want. I’ll give ya the honors.”

He motions toward the right wrist, and Therion puts it together. Thoughts return to the bangle once more, and Alfyn’s kindness is another reminder that _he_ has the choice. There’s something else to coax the shame away, and he can carry kindness wherever he goes.

Still, he won’t let Alfyn have the last surprise of the night.

With an open palm, Therion holds the unclasped bracelet toward him.

“Just this once.”

Alfyn’s expression is endearing. This is Therion’s choice, a small gesture to repay all the kindness he’s given him, that they’ve all given him. He can’t complain about his warm laugh, though.

“Heh, can do.” 

With two hands free, Alfyn easily clasps the bracelet around Therion’s wrist. A thumb brushes against the skin where the bangle once lay, lingering concern in an otherwise clinical touch.

“It’s not hurtin’ ya anymore, is it?”

Through strong salves and safe hands, the irritated skin healed some time ago. They both know, yet Therion reassures him anyway.

“No.”

“Good.”

He notices Alfyn left some space as he turns his wrist, and he smiles.

“Feels nice.” The bracelet’s nice. The flutter in his heart when he slowly rests against Alfyn is also nice. 

For some reason, Alfyn’s still cold.

He pulls away and unravels most of his scarf with one smooth motion. Behind Alfyn’s back, Therion tosses one end across, and the frayed ends brush Alfyn’s opposite shoulder. A swift hand prevents the scarf from sliding onto the bench.

“Here,” Therion says, feeling the warmth rise toward his face. 

Alfyn obliges without a word and pulls his portion of the scarf closer against his neck, one end hanging loosely in front. He wraps an arm around Therion again, gently lifting his right wrist in the air. Two bracelets shine beneath the light; two sentimental fools enjoy the night. 

“Guess we match, huh?”

Therion laughs, warm and light. Free.

“Guess we do.”

Therion revisits one of many thoughts - this time, it’s from Duskbarrow. He learned to survive, and he’s learned how to be kind. The steps toward thriving are slow, and it scares him. He doesn’t know what path lies beyond, and yet, he knows he won’t walk it alone. Life’s all about change, and one day, the group may go their separate ways, returning to old homes or searching for new ones. Sappy as it sounds, Therion understands he won’t walk alone, no matter the distance.

Maybe things will be all right. It’s his hope. 

Hope feels like lying on the grass, the sand, the softest bed. It’s staring at the stars, taking pride in one’s journey and one’s brave steps toward healing. 

Hope feels like a warm blanket, an apple tart, lush apple trees in place of walls that once guarded his heart. Strong arms clear away the walls, and safe hands protect what lies within.

There’s a safe hand against him, holding him close, gently patting his arm. It’s still patting his arm, more firmly than before.

“Therion?”

Therion doesn’t startle awake. Rather, he lazily opens his eyes and finds his cheek pressed against Alfyn’s side. The scarf is lopsided around both of their necks, soft fabric lying close against their necks. If he’s flustered, he’s too tired to care.

“Ya looked so peaceful... almost didn’t wanna wake ya,” Alfyn says, gesturing with a hand. “We’re kinda on a roof, though.”

A resigned sigh, and Therion rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Guess we should head back.”

“Guess we should.”

The two try to stand, and the scarf stops them.

“I got it-”

“No no, I can-”

Hand touch as they reach for the same area of the scarf, and they share their laughter.

God, they’re a mess. 

“Here,” Therion tosses the remainder of his scarf at Alfyn. “Wear it until we get back.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfyn resigns himself to his fate with a soft laugh. Therion lifts the door and gestures for Alfyn to leave first. He smiles up at the stars, closing the door above him.

A sleeping Eliza greets them, her head resting against a cluttered table. Scattered swords in various states of wear surround her work area. Therion knows she’s just one of them now - a mess beneath the armor.

Said mess catches them off-guard with feigned slumber - only to wish them a good evening.

“Do not worry. I am used to this,” Eliza waves them off and falls asleep. Maybe it’s a habit she learned from H’aanit, or it’s the other way around. Therion quietly extinguishes the oil lamp beside her, and the two leave for the palace. 

They’re the only ones in the town square aside from the night watch, who regards them with a nod. Steady steps sound against the bridge leading to the entrance.

“Hey,” Alfyn starts.

“Hm?”

“Just wanted to say thanks again for watchin’ over me. Ya didn’t need to.”

“Yeah well, I did,” Therion shrugs. “And I’ll do it again. Deal with it.”

Alfyn smooths his fingers against the soft texture of the scarf. “Heh, I don’t mind that, at all.”

It’s the least he can do to repay Alfyn’s kindness. Whether it’s the shine of a bracelet, the warmth of a scarf, or safe company, Therion can get used to it, too. He built this bridge, and he’ll do his best to maintain it.

**Author's Note:**

> I think a lot of people could use a hug, right now :') Let me know if there's a part that made you feel a certain way - I appreciate feedback!
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/purplefury_), where I’ll post updates, snippets, etc.! As always, thank you for reading, and stay safe!


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